Wrong Place, Wrong Time
by Lady Russell Holmes
Summary: While Harry and company frantically race towards the Sorcerer's Stone, Dumbledore becomes aware that something is wrong. (Missing scene fic, from HP: SS)


_Title: __Wrong Place, Wrong Time _

  


_Author: _Lady Russell Holmes 

  


_Summary_: A missing-scene piece from _The Sorcerer's Stone_. What was Dumbledore doing while Harry, Hermione, and Ron went after the Stone, and what happened in the six days that Harry was unconscious? (Some of the characters may seem rather out of character, but I know from experience that teachers act very differently when they are not around the students, so it's not that inconceivable.) I felt that this scene needed to be written, so I wrote it. Love me for it or not.

  


_Rating_: PG

  


_Date_: December 15, 2003.

  


_Disclaimer_: Not mine, unfortunately, but soon I will possess J.K. Rowling and adopt the reincarnated Mark Twain, and then I shall own all the world! _Insert evil laughter here_. Well, no, but I might actually own this fic._Additional cleverness_: Persons attempting to find a motive in the narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.

  


By Order of the Author

  


per

  


G.G., Chief of Ordnance

  


Albus Dumbledore was relaxing, drinking a cup of tea in his office. At that moment, the students were finishing their exams in various classrooms all over the school. He always felt a sense of personal satisfaction at this time of the year. All those children, nearly three-hundred, putting everything that they had learned into play, being pleasantly surprised at how much they knew. His pride and joy, those students. In truth, he missed teaching them himself. Thirty-eight years had passed since Armando Dippet had retired and the Board had appointed him Headmaster in his place, but some part of him, a rather large part, still wanted to be in that sunny classroom near the North Tower, teaching Transfiguration.

  


He sighed contentedly, gazing out of the large window that filled one curved wall. Yes, exams must be over, for the first students were beginning to stream out onto the grounds. It was a beautiful day, with a cloudless sky reflected in the lake. Dumbledore began identifying students one by one, watching over them. He chuckled as he saw the Weasley twins, so conspicuous with their red hair, sprint to the edge of the lake to tease the squid. It apparently wanted to enjoy the nice day as well, basking in the shallows at the edge.

  


He shifted his gaze, looking for one student in particular. He found him with his friends, as always. Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger were just leaving the castle. Escaping the press of students, they wandered down to the lake's edge, settling in the grass in the shade of a tall oak tree. Dumbledore smiled. He remembered that tree: Harry's father, James, had often sat there with his friends after Quidditch matches. It was a very old tree. 

  


He was so intent watching the various little clumps of relaxing students that the owl's arrival took him quite by surprise. He jumped a little when it flew in through the open skylight, landing on his desk and clacking its beak imperiously. Dumbledore felt a little less relaxed when he saw the Ministry medallion dangling on a chain around the bird's neck. He sighed. Fudge, the new Minister of Magic, held so little confidence in himself that he was constantly owling Dumbledore for aid and advice. Dumbledore remembered when Cornelius Fudge had been a student here. He had been rather a lot like Neville Longbottom: Shy and uncertain, but with occasional flashes of stubborn courage.

  


The letter was brief, asking that Dumbledore come to London to advise Fudge in a meeting with several members of the French Ministry of Magic. The meeting was scheduled for 10:30 that night; he had six hours. Looking out the window once more, Dumbledore decided to fly. After all, he wouldn't be needed here for at least the rest of the day, and it was so hot a day that even above the clouds it would be comfortably warm. 

  


Humming to himself, Dumbledore went to a corner of his office and unlocked the third lock out of 19 on an ornate steamer trunk. Rummaging around inside, he came up with an old, slightly battered broomstick. He could barely read the old gilt paint on the handles, which had once said "Excalibur." "Been a long time, old friend," he muttered, running his hands along it, straightening the twigs. He had only flown a handful of times since his own time as a student, and he could still feel the leather of the Quaffle in his hands from his last save, when, as a Seventh year, he had been Keeper when Gryffindor had won the Quidditch Cup.

  


Shaking his head at how nostalgic he was becoming in his old age, Dumbledore opened the large window with a flick of his wand. Before he could take off, however, Professor McGonagall came in. "Albus," she said. "Phyllida and I were wondering if you wanted to go for a- Oh, are you going somewhere?" She had belatedly noticed the broom. 

  


"Er, yes," said Dumbledore, a little embarrassed to have been caught doing something so sentimental. "Cornelius owled me, seems he wants my help with the French Ministry. It's an absolutely spectacular day, so I thought I'd take advantage of it and fly."

  


McGonagall smiled fondly. "Now there's something that all the students and half the staff would pay to see: Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster and Supreme Mugwump, on a broomstick. Wait a moment, and I'll get my camera."

  


Dumbledore adopted a look of mock-indigence. "It's not so unbelievable, Minerva. Did I ever tell you, I was Keeper for Gryffindor in my day? I made more than my fair share of spectacular saves, if I do say so myself. My name's still on the Quidditch Cup, I should think."

  


"Is it?" McGonagall's voice was teasing. "I've never looked that far down on the plaque."

  


Dumbledore rolled his eyes. "If you're quite finished making mock of an old man, Minerva, I have a thermal to catch. I should be back shortly after supper." He winked at her, and flew out of the window into the clear sky.

  


It was an exceedingly pleasant flight. Dumbledore flew over the rough terrain around the castle, following the contours of the empty land, but when he began to see signs of inhabitancy, he had to put an invisibility charm on himself and the broom. Sometimes, he thought to himself, he wished that there was no need for the strict rules of secrecy that bound wizard-kind. But rules were rules, and so he followed them. 

  


As the countryside below became more and more orderly, fields and villages rather than forests and cliffs, he angled his broom upwards, flying up to where his only company was geese and the occasional airplane. Up here, he looked down and saw England as though it were under water, or under a pane of blue-tinted glass. A few tiny clouds, so small that they had been invisible from the ground, floated around him. He teased them into spiral shapes with his wand, laughing like a child. Oh, it was so good to be alone once in a while.

  


All too soon, London sprawled beneath him in a tangled grey carpet. It stretched endlessly in all directions from its hub of office buildings and skyscrapers. He began to descend into the noise and smell of the city, and landed eventually in a dank alley off of a busy road. Dismounting and removing the invisibility charm, he startled a cat from under the dustbins, but no one else saw him. He was even early. He looked around, and quickly found what he was looking for; a small, battered-looking telephone booth tucked away in a dark corner at the very rear of the alley. Smiling, he stepped into it and closed the rickety sliding door. He remembered the number well enough. Six, two, four, four, two. A pleasant female voice answered, but not from the receiver, which was still on the hook. "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

  


"Albus Dumbledore, meeting with Minister Fudge," he enunciated clearly.

  


"Oh," said the voice cheerfully. "What a pleasant surprise. I'll tell the Minister that you're here."

  


Dumbledore's brow furrowed. "Wasn't he expecting me?" A feeling of dread gnawed now at the pit of his stomach, all the joy from the flight forgotten. "He sent me an owl this afternoon, asking me to come."

  


"No," said the voice slowly, as though she was checking her notes. "No, I'm sorry. The Minister hasn't sent any owls at all today."

  


Before she could finish her sentence, Dumbledore was out of the booth and back in the air. He nearly hit an incoming brown owl as he shot straight upwards, heedless of his visibility. As soon as he was far enough away from the Ministry building, he dissapparated.

  


He reapparated as close to the grounds of the school as he could, miraculously still on his broom, and raced back up to the castle. He dropped the broom on the steps, taking them two at a time. In the Entrance Hall, he nearly bowled two firsts years over, then he skidded to a stop. He knew a moment of relief as he recognized Ron and Hermione; surely they would not be here if Harry were in danger; but then he realized that Ron was leaning heavily on Hermione for support, that they both looked rather banged up, especially Ron, who had the beginnings of a truly spectacular black eye, and that _Harry was not with them._ He knew at once where the boy had gone. "Harry's gone after him, hasn't he?" he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer as he sprinted up the stairs toward the third floor.

  


It was the work of a moment to evade Fluffy, and two long strides carried him out of the reach of the Devil's Snare, but the tasks still took time to navigate. Weasley and Granger had taken the brooms from the room with the flying keys, but a simple summoning charm worked much quicker anyway. The troll was still unconscious, though Dumbledore didn't know if it was Harry, or the other intruder who had subdued him. He didn't stop to think about it.

  


Fortunately, McGonagall's giant chess set obeyed his command to stand aside and let him pass. He had never been much of a chess player, although the game fascinated him. And in the next room, the empty bottle told him which had held the pass into the next room. He picked it up, hoping. Yes, a tiny amount, just a drop remained, but it was enough. Dumbledore tapped the bottle with his wand. "_Replicio_," he murmured, and the potion once again filled the tiny vessel. He drank it in a single quaff, shuddering with the sensation of his blood having been replaced by ice-water, and ran through the leaping black flames into the final room.

  


He didn't know whom he had been expecting, but who it was took him aback. On the steps opposite him, below the Mirror of Erised, Quirrel was grappling with Harry, trying to get away from him as Harry, laying on the ground, clung doggedly to his arm. Harry's eyes were clenched shut and he looked like he was in a lot of pain, but not so much as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Quirrel was shrieking and batting at Harry with hands so burnt and blistered that they looked like a pair of melted rubber gloves. His face was scalded as well: a clear outline of a small hand stood out lividly upon it. They turned and Dumbledore gasped. Growing out of the back of Quirrel's bare head, and screaming "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" in a harsh, ice-cold voice, was a hideous, misshapen face, with gleaming red eyes and no nose at all. 

  


Seeing Voldemort's face, such as it was, freed Dumbledore from his shock. "Harry!" he called out as he raced across the room. Was he too late? Harry looked too still now, his head rolling back on his neck. "Harry!" Dumbledore pushed himself between Harry and Quirrel, forcing them roughly apart. Behind him, Quirrel collapsed to the floor, suddenly as silent as Harry, but Dumbledore had attention only to spare for the boy in his arms. "Harry!" he called again, shaking him gently, then with more urgency. There was no response. "Wake up, boy," he urged, patting his face as he sat down on the floor in a puddle of robes. Was he too late? He scrabbled for Harry wrist, and nearly sobbed in relief when he found a pulse, beating strong and fast under his fingers.

  


Running footsteps made him look up and grip Harry tighter in defense, but it was only McGonagall and Snape. They stopped short when they saw Harry, and McGonagall gasped. "He isn't..?" Dumbledore shook his head. 

  


"No, he's alive, but he's unconscious." Dumbledore stood up, lifting Harry. "I'll take him up to the hospital wing." For the first time, he looked down at Quirrel. "Can you take him up, too?" he said to the others. "Keep a close eye on him." He started toward the exit, but was stopped by Minerva's gasp.

  


"He's dead!"

  


Dumbledore turned to look, and got a shock. The awful face on the back of Quirrel's head was gone. It was just an ordinary head now, complete with dark, thinning hair and an uneven part. The burns were still there, though, stark against death-pallored skin. His face was frozen in an anguished scream, eyes wide and staring. His hands were burnt into crabbed claws, reaching for something beyond his grasp. The Sorcerer's Stone caught Dumbledore's eye, glinting from where it was caught inside Harry's fist. "Good for you, my boy," he murmured to Harry, ruffling his hair fondly. "Good for you."

  


(I have to dedicate this to Jim Dale, because it was his voice, so full of nuance and shade, that allowed me to step outside the story long enough to realize that there were untold facets of it. That said, please, read and review. I could continue this a bit longer, if people like it, or I could leave it to stand on its own as a small part of that beautiful whole that is _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone_. (I am maudlin late at night, as well as verbose. Can you tell?))


End file.
